TO LESSING'S LAOc.o.o.n

One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd, My friend and I, by chance we talk'd Of Lessing's famed Laoc.o.o.n; And after we awhile had gone In Lessing's track, and tried to see What painting is, what poetry-- Diverging to another thought, "Ah," cries my friend, "but who hath taught Why music and the other arts Oftener perform aright their parts Than poetry? why she, than they, Fewer fine successes can display?

"For 'tis so, surely! Even in Greece, Where best the poet framed his piece, Even in that Phoebus-guarded ground Pausanias on his travels found Good poems, if he look'd, more rare (Though many) than good statues were-- For these, in truth, were everywhere.

Of bards full many a stroke divine In Dante's, Petrarch's, Ta.s.so's line, The land of Ariosto show'd; And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'd With triumphs, a yet ampler brood, Of Raphael and his brotherhood.

And n.o.bly perfect, in our day Of haste, half-work, and disarray, Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong, Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song; Yet even I (and none will bow Deeper to these) must needs allow, They yield us not, to soothe our pains, Such mult.i.tude of heavenly strains As from the kings of sound are blown, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn."

While thus my friend discoursed, we pa.s.s Out of the path, and take the gra.s.s.

The gra.s.s had still the green of May, And still the unblacken'd elms were gay; The kine were resting in the shade, The flies a summer-murmur made.

Bright was the morn and south the air; The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair As those which pastured by the sea, That old-world morn, in Sicily, When on the beach the Cyclops lay, And Galatea from the bay Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay.

"Behold," I said, "the painter's sphere!

The limits of his art appear.

The pa.s.sing group, the summer-morn, The gra.s.s, the elms, that blossom'd thorn-- Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise, Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes-- These, or much greater things, but caught Like these, and in one aspect brought!

In outward semblance he must give A moment's life of things that live; Then let him choose his moment well, With power divine its story tell."

Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood, And now upon the bridge we stood.

Full of sweet breathings was the air, Of sudden stirs and pauses fair.

Down o'er the stately bridge the breeze Came rustling from the garden-trees And on the sparkling waters play'd; Light-plashing waves an answer made, And mimic boats their haven near'd.

Beyond, the Abbey-towers appear'd, By mist and chimneys unconfined, Free to the sweep of light and wind; While through their earth-moor'd nave below Another breath of wind doth blow, Sound as of wandering breeze--but sound In laws by human artists bound.

"The world of music!" I exclaim'd:-- "This breeze that rustles by, that famed Abbey recall it! what a sphere Large and profound, hath genius here!

The inspired musician what a range, What power of pa.s.sion, wealth of change!

Some source of feeling he must choose And its lock'd fount of beauty use, And through the stream of music tell Its else unutterable spell; To choose it rightly is his part, And press into its inmost heart.

"_Miserere, Domine!_ The words are utter'd, and they flee.

Deep is their penitential moan, Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone.

They have declared the spirit's sore Sore load, and words can do no more.

Beethoven takes them then--those two Poor, bounded words--and makes them new; Infinite makes them, makes them young; Transplants them to another tongue, Where they can now, without constraint, Pour all the soul of their complaint, And roll adown a channel large The wealth divine they have in charge.

Page after page of music turn, And still they live and still they burn, Eternal, pa.s.sion-fraught, and free-- _Miserere, Domine!_"

Onward we moved, and reach'd the Ride Where gaily flows the human tide.

Afar, in rest the cattle lay; We heard, afar, faint music play; But agitated, brisk, and near, Men, with their stream of life, were here.

Some hang upon the rails, and some On foot behind them go and come.

This through the Ride upon his steed Goes slowly by, and this at speed.

The young, the happy, and the fair, The old, the sad, the worn, were there; Some vacant, and some musing went, And some in talk and merriment.

Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!

And now and then, perhaps, there swells A sigh, a tear--but in the throng All changes fast, and hies along.

Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground?

And to what goal, what ending, bound?

"Behold, at last the poet's sphere!

But who," I said, "suffices here?

"For, ah! so much he has to do; Be painter and musician too!

The aspect of the moment show, The feeling of the moment know!

The aspect not, I grant, express Clear as the painter's art can dress; The feeling not, I grant, explore So deep as the musician's lore-- But clear as words can make revealing, And deep as words can follow feeling.

But, ah! then comes his sorest spell Of toil--he must life's _movement_ tell!

The thread which binds it all in one, And not its separate parts alone.

The _movement_ he must tell of life, Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife; His eye must travel down, at full, The long, unpausing spectacle; With faithful unrelaxing force Attend it from its primal source, From change to change and year to year Attend it of its mid career, Attend it to the last repose And solemn silence of its close.

"The cattle rising from the gra.s.s His thought must follow where they pa.s.s; The penitent with anguish bow'd His thought must follow through the crowd.

Yes! all this eddying, motley throng That sparkles in the sun along, Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold, Master and servant, young and old, Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife, He follows home, and lives their life.

"And many, many are the souls Life's movement fascinates, controls; It draws them on, they cannot save Their feet from its alluring wave; They cannot leave it, they must go With its unconquerable flow.

But ah! how few, of all that try This mighty march, do aught but die!

For ill-endow'd for such a way, Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they.

They faint, they stagger to and fro, And wandering from the stream they go; In pain, in terror, in distress, They see, all round, a wilderness.

Sometimes a momentary gleam They catch of the mysterious stream; Sometimes, a second's s.p.a.ce, their ear The murmur of its waves doth hear.

That transient glimpse in song they say, But not as painter can pourtray-- That transient sound in song they tell, But not, as the musician, well.

And when at last their s.n.a.t.c.hes cease, And they are silent and at peace, The stream of life's majestic whole Hath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul.

"Only a few the life-stream's sh.o.r.e With safe unwandering feet explore; Untired its movement bright attend, Follow its windings to the end.

Then from its br.i.m.m.i.n.g waves their eye Drinks up delighted ecstasy, And its deep-toned, melodious voice For ever makes their ear rejoice.

They speak! the happiness divine They feel, runs o'er in every line; Its spell is round them like a shower-- It gives them pathos, gives them power.

No painter yet hath such a way, Nor no musician made, as they, And gather'd on immortal knolls Such lovely flowers for cheering souls.

Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach The charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach To these, to these, their thankful race Gives, then, the first, the fairest place; And brightest is their glory's sheen, For greatest hath their labour been."

PERSISTENCY OF POETRY

Though the Muse be gone away, Though she move not earth to-day, Souls, erewhile who caught her word, Ah! still harp on what they heard.

A CAUTION TO POETS

What poets feel not, when they make, A pleasure in creating, The world, in _its_ turn, will not take Pleasure in contemplating.

THE YOUTH OF NATURE

Raised are the dripping oars, Silent the boat! the lake, Lovely and soft as a dream, Swims in the sheen of the moon.

The mountains stand at its head Clear in the pure June-night, But the valleys are flooded with haze.

Rydal and Fairfield are there; In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead.

So it is, so it will be for aye.

Nature is fresh as of old, Is lovely; a mortal is dead.

The spots which recall him survive, For he lent a new life to these hills.

The Pillar still broods o'er the fields Which border Ennerdale Lake, And Egremont sleeps by the sea.

The gleam of The Evening Star Twinkles on Grasmere no more, But ruin'd and solemn and grey The sheepfold of Michael survives; And, far to the south, the heath Still blows in the Quantock coombs, By the favourite waters of Ruth.

These survive!--yet not without pain, Pain and dejection to-night, Can I feel that their poet is gone.